


The Musings of Dean Winchester 'or' (Dean's Emo Angst Ridden Bullshit)

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-07
Updated: 2006-09-07
Packaged: 2018-09-06 09:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8744737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Sam isn't the only Winchester to have inner angst and a bag full of thoughts that keep you up at night. Sam is just the only one to admit this shit.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: The Musings of Dean Winchester 'or' (Dean's Emo Angst Ridden Bullshit)  
Author: Pet [[](http://crazyjoyfulgirl.livejournal.com/profile)[ **crazyjoyfulgirl**](http://crazyjoyfulgirl.livejournal.com/)]  
Characters: Sam/Dean  
Rating: Hard R  
Category: Wincest, slash  
Spoilers/Warnings: In and around SPN Season 1 (work with me here people); incest, naughty words, the inside of Dean's mind? Oh, yeah I went there.  
Disclaimer: I no own. I only pretend to own. If I really did own though. Oh, baby, there would videos, pictures and no time for hunting. I'm very needy.  
Summary: Sam isn't the only Winchester to have inner angst and a bag full of thoughts that keep you up at night. Sam is just the only one to admit this shit.  
Notes: Well I finally did it. I did a Dean POV, please be kind. Oh and I love the following peeps more than these new Willy Wonka Squeezable candies I'm addicted to. [ ](http://madders.livejournal.com/profile)[**madders**](http://madders.livejournal.com/) for the awesome Beta. I heart you, you know that. You are so good and giving to me. I am a lucky Pet. [ ](http://bittersweet-art.livejournal.com/profile)[**bittersweet_art**](http://bittersweet-art.livejournal.com/), [ ](http://spangels-girl.livejournal.com/profile)[**spangels_girl**](http://spangels-girl.livejournal.com/) and [ ](http://angelstart.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://angelstart.livejournal.com/)**angelstart** for reading this before everyone else, just to comfort me and convince me it's not just some skeery ass shit I thought it might end up being.  
  
ETA: Oh yeah I totally borrowed a Jossism from Serenity and put it in here. Ooops. You the man Joss.  
  
***  
  
When you're down in the dirt, mucked up with blood up to your god damn eyeballs and all you know, all you think, all you feel, all you can fucking deem to comprehend begins with an S and ends with an M. You decide you're so fucked up beyond comprehension that the road that could have saved you, the road back to some semblance of sanity, dropped off way, way back. Back way before you even wanted to admit it to yourself.  
  
But it was there, always there. Like some sharp, clear, biting desire. This pungent, punch to the gut kind of want. You had no freaking explanation for it. You didn't have one shit good reason for these thoughts. Just knew they came unbidden but somehow never unwanted. And that's the rub right there isn't it? The stark reality of truth that makes you want to miss the shot, or just run a little slower almost once a week for the past too many fucking years when it gets just too real. Cause that pain, that's your benediction to a God you barely thinks exists.  
  
That you want to fuck your brother. That you've wanted it for years. That you want your brother to fuck you. Over and over and over again. That you want to blow him and have him blow you. That you want to listen to him pant and moan and fucking scream your name in something other than fear or anger. That you just WANT WANT WANT so fucking much that the want becomes your fucking heartbeat. Because it's never ending. Never stopping.  
  
That's when you decide that Dean Winchester has lost his mind. But you’re fine with that. Because you are him and these are your thoughts and fuck if you'll ever tell anyone else. Because if you do they'll lock you away or kill you. Because some days, yeah some days you just want to end yourself. Bullet to the brain pan squish. You remember hearing that somewhere. Thought it was the best damn shit you ever heard. Made perfect fucking sense to you at the time. Still does when shit gets too heavy.  
  
But where were you? Ah, yeah, mucked up with blood and dirty. In a fucking hole so deep you can't see light and you think there has to be some shit broken. A whole lotta shit broken. But all you can think is Sam, Sam, Sam fuck Sammy please be ok I need you to be ok. And not all the reasons for this are pure or damn even close to brotherly. You love him, you know that. You always have. Just wasn't always this kind of LOVE and it never stops being fucked up. But you couldn't give a shit about wrong. And when you get sick about it, you just remind yourself it's some kind of human nature or some freaking crap. That's why you can’t look anyone straight in the eye sometimes and you fuck more woman than necessary and you make such a big fucking deal outta the things you like best about him.  
  
I mean you gotta because what kinda fucked up older brother wants to see his younger brother, naked, writhing, and wrapped around his dick? What kinda older brother wants to ride his younger brother until all he can see in his eyes is you, you, and you and he'll never leave after that? You know it. Cause when he loves like that? It's pretty much fucking forever. You know. Sam's been carrying around Jessica like a physical fucking being for way too long now. That kinda love lingers everywhere, anywhere for all goddamn time. And you fucking hate Jessica. Hate her purely because you have wanted that for yourself and never wanted to see it directed at another living, breathing thing.   
  
But you pretend. You pretend you understand that grief. Talk about vengeance and how you understand, when all you can do at night is thank the fucking lord above that she bit the big one. Yeah you know you're evil and you’re cool with that too. When your aspirations equal, hunt, kill, eat and drive, hard rock, beer and brother fucking; you pretty much were comfortable with the label of evil a long ass time ago.   
  
But now, bleeding, and nearly passing out. You hear his voice. THAT VOICE. It's meant everything to you and never nothing. Even when you've wanted to punch that mouth or seal it shut when it just. wouldn't. stop. talking. Or saying shit you didn't want to hear. You still loved it, needed it, and craved hearing it. And those two, three, four years; or however long Sam was away, you’re still not entirely sure. You lie though. Because to you it felt like a lifetime ago. And well, shit, if you told your dad or Sam that, they would just call you cuckoo and check you for invasion scars.  
  
Because you can't give too much of yourself away. That would be a huge wicked ass mistake and you don't make many of those. Choice of lays notwithstanding. You keep Dean Winchester's deep, dark secrets just to Dean Winchester and since you’re him, you're just fine with that.   
  
You cry out the best you can and when his shadow appears above you. Right there. You can see the strands of his long-ass hair just waving in the breeze and gaze into the god damn eyes and fall, fall some damn more. You’re happy. Fuck you get happier every freaking time. Just because he's there. Sam's there. You were saved before you knew you were lost.   
  
You were so fucking lost and you can never be fucking saved. Just that kind of lost isn't a fucking hole in Bumfucked and No-Place-the-Fuck-Ever Montana. The kinda lost you're talking is in his space, his eyes, his breath. And who knew you could ever be this fucking poetic? And you didn't even have the handy dandy college education you’re so damn proud of him for being so stubborn about getting.  
  
He gets you out and he fawns 'cause that's what Sam does. He fawns and he preens and he fusses and mopes and gets so damn emo you have to slap him around a bit so he gets pissed off at you; and tells you to take care of your own damn self then because you’re apparently not fucking appreciative that he saved you and fixed the one damn bone you broke himself. Because he knows you hate hospitals and this is how you thank him? And Jesus all that damn whining and bitching about 'Oh God, Sam shit give me some Goddamn drugs, I must of broke everything' and freaking him out how dare you and just having one damn bone broken? What did you expect?  
  
But really you can't take his sadness. It lingers and he gets these faces you want to take away. But you can't take him for ice cream anymore. Buy him a comic. Steal him a toy. He's kinda over all that crap. And you can't get him laid because of the burden of the dead girlfriend. The words pussy, vagina, boobs, breasts, tits, don't even exist in Sam's dictionary anymore. And you stop and thank god for that too 'cause your chances just sky rocketed from chances are so fucking slim you could be a stick, to chances are minimal maybe, if you got him drunk, drugged him up and made him watch hours of porn.  
  
Worst part of it though? Is that you want to tell him things. Because you’re cooped up alone with him, outside anything. He gives you everything you need. Helps you everywhere in this tiny space you call a motel room. And he fawns and fusses and you've never loved and been so damn needy for fuck, nearly anything. But the closer he gets, and the more time he spends with you and you spend with him, means your defenses drop way, way the hell down and you’re just left with all those welling, twirling needs and wants and desires about ready to spill out of your lips.  
  
You want to tell him everything, just admit it, finally just finally, relieve the pressure from your chest, your heart, your god damn soul. Maybe you think if Sam just knew it would explain a hell of a lot of your actions. But mostly you just think he'll vomit and run off so fast from you and make it permanent this time. And you'll never find him, you know that. He's a Winchester too. And then? Well then you will just die. And not just figuratively.  
  
So one night you get him so stressed out, so mad that you tell him to fuck off. Go away then. Just take the keys and leave you the fuck alone. You don't need his shit. GO SAM FUCK YOU! And so he does. Looking so fucking beautiful and sexy you can barely contain your damn self. Spitting curses and calling you every fucking name he can think of. Nostrils flaring, eyes burning daggers and then he's gone and you're breathing out more of those tried and true praises to god.  
  
Because now you're unbuttoning your pants and shoving them down your legs, ignoring the burn and the pain and the twitches of muscles not yet healed. Who the fuck cares about that? You just fucking need to get some of this out. You can't deal. You can't even begin to deal. You take yourself in one hand. You’re a throbbing, rock solid mass of want in less than five seconds. You slick your free hand up with some cheap ass lotion and you’re pushing and swearing and just repeating over and over worship to your one true god. 'Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sammy, baby, Sammy, fuck Sam, Sammy fuck me, Jesus Sam.'  
  
And you don't really hear yourself, you don't really need to. It's just a solid never ending litany of words. Dirty, gut wrenching, truthful, soul crying out for completion words. This kinda of filth porn stars are jealous of. But it's your fantasies, your head. And this is YOU. You expressing your need for HIM. And you ain't ever seen one damn reason to hold yourself back.  
  
You don't even hear the door reopen. You don't realize he's standing there. You don't even hear him breathe. You don't hear his foot steps. You don't even feel the bed fucking dip for god’s sake. But when he touches you, light, soft, unsure right near your hip? You freeze cold. You’re a statue as still as death and fucking close to just being that. You'll die if this goes wrong. You know it.  
  
His eyes...you can't read them. His face isn't showing anything solid. But his fingers aren't moving from your hips. And your fingers are still wrapped tight as fuck around your cock, wringing the fuck outta it, while your free hand is shoving three fingers so deep in your ass Sam has to be thinking you're trying to dig some kind of demon right outta your system.  
  
Then his hand moves to your cock and for a second you see stars because you hold your breathe so tight you think you're gonna pass out. Then he's moving each of your fingers away and replacing them with his own. And that sob? It was you. It was but you will never admit. You'll die before you ever do. But he doesn't seem to hear it or care. He just looks so amazed. So in awe. So...  
  
"Dean, why didn't you just tell me? God, we could have saved so much trouble."  
  
And when you come just like that and pass out? You don't mind so much. Because when you wake up? Then fantasy becomes reality and all this angst ridden emo bullshit you picked up from him, this long-haul suffering is so going out the window. And then you're going to fuck your brother in all fifty states and well, you're gonna love it when he fucks you right the hell back in every single one too. Because it just so happens that Winchester's really fucking can want and have the same damn thing after all.   
  
And you’re more than fucking cool with that. Because you're Dean Winchester and he's Sam Winchester and if no one else agrees? You can blow their heads off with the gun of the same name.


End file.
